


Isolation

by phantomlistener



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 17:38:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomlistener/pseuds/phantomlistener
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ruth isn't a field agent. She knows that. And yet the fallout from these operations is as intense, if not worse, than it is for her fellow spooks. Set somewhere early in Series 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Isolation

She works late.

Her desk light illuminates a small patch of darkness: enough that she can read, but more importantly enough that she doesn't feel choked by the weight of the silence.

The computer screen illuminates her face as she concentrates, a frown working its way on to her forehead.

"It doesn't make sense," she whispers to herself. "There's something..."

She scrolls through the text and photos carefully, jotting the occasional note, her mind making the familiar connections between seemingly unrelated facts and images. This is what she's good at, not the lies and the danger of fieldwork that seems to be sucking her deeper and deeper in to its clutches.

She sighs, and abruptly the thread of thought is broken. It feels as if the certainty of her life is collapsing in on itself, leaving her adrift with no anchor or harbour to stop her from floating away.

The pods swish open and she glances at her watch. 11:35, it tells her; how did it get so late?

"Ruth?"

"Harry." She knows what he's going to say, raises a hand to forestall him. "I'm not going home yet."

He looks at her inscrutably. "You need to get some sleep."

"Well, there are things I need to do first." There's an unintended snap in her voice and she lowers her eyes quickly. There's no way she's going to explain to anyone, let alone Harry Pearce, that she closes her eyes in the darkness of her room and sees nothing but dead faces. That she sleeps for an hour, at most, before she wakes up crying to find herself lying in a tangle of sheets and covers, her heart beating in triple-time against her chest.

She can deal with this alone.

"Are you –"

"Fine. I'm fine, really." He obviously doesn't believe her but she knows that he won't push her. He never has, never would: it's one of the few things she is certain of, these days. "I've just got a few things to finish up."

"Right." He hesitates at her desk and she feels a momentary rush of panic as it seems he might add something, but he walks away without another word. The darkness swallows him up and she watches until the light in his office comes on, letting her attention return to the computer.

Suddenly she doesn't feel quite so alone.

It's not enough to make her comfortable about, twenty minutes later, switching off her computer and picking up her handbag. Her fingers hover over the light switch, unsure, but the move has been made and her desk floods with darkness. She goes instinctively towards the only light remaining.

Harry looks up as she slides open the door. "Going home at last?"

"Yes." She can't quite bring herself to meet his eyes. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He nods, pushing the file in front of him to one side. "Ruth..."

"Don't."

"Ruth, I'm worried about you."

She says nothing, standing in the open doorway with her bag over one arm. Perhaps this certainty, too, is suspect; perhaps everything she believes is false in one way or another.

"Have you even been sleeping?"

"Harry–"

I will put you on medical suspension if I have to." This time it's him who doesn't quite meet her sudden, shocked gaze. "Just promise me you'll rest."

"I'll rest." He didn't say sleep, she rationalises. She can rest easily, lying wide-eyed in the middle of her bed with the lights on.

He searches her eyes briefly and she pushes away the impulse to step back and let the door close between them. Just a couple of minutes, enough to convince him that she really is fine, and then she can go home to her nightly charade of sleep. "I'll be perfectly okay."

She sees in his eyes the precise moment he admits defeat and she feels simultaneously relieved and distraught.

"Goodnight, then," he says softly, his hand reaching for another file.

He is so accepting of her reticence in that moment that she almost speaks: the words are on the tip of her tongue, almost falling. But her barriers reform in seconds. "Goodnight," she says instead.

The door closes with a sharp push of her hand and she grabs her coat before heading to the pods.

She tells herself, as the freezing air outside hits her warm skin, that she'll be fine tomorrow. She tells herself the same thing as she waits for her bus, and as she waits out the journey home, knowing the extent of the lie she is telling herself but hardly caring.

She'll find a book to read when she gets back: something exotic, perhaps, something as far removed from London and spies and darkness as she can get.

And then, maybe, she'll sleep.


End file.
